


she's all sewn apart

by 1001cranes



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, Magic, Revenge, Sisters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2013-03-04
Packaged: 2017-12-04 06:49:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/707786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1001cranes/pseuds/1001cranes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It would sound terrible to say out loud, but Maggie knows something is wrong when Lydia never gets back to her about Fashion Week. </p><p>Or: Maggie Martin, armed with wolfsbane and covered in magic, comes back to Beacon Hills to help her sister put Peter down for good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	she's all sewn apart

**Author's Note:**

> IDEK guys. based on [this photoset](http://roseandthebeast.tumblr.com/post/43234171722/photoshoot-gifs-jessica-chastain-for-yves-saint), because I am on cold medicine and Teen Wolf-crazy and now I can't unsee Jessica Chastain as Lydia's older sister.
> 
> The timeline of Teen Wolf is incongruent with Fashion Week, but let's just roll with it.
> 
> Also, it is a short chapter, but its kind of a prologue to everything else in my head, so - bear with me.

It would sound terrible to say out loud, but Maggie knows something is wrong when Lydia never gets back to her about Fashion Week. 

Lydia and Maggie had never been particularly close. Maggie had been seven years older, happy to be a big sister, to show Lydia how to read, how to tie her shoelaces, to share her toys. But Lydia had never needed her help. Had never needed her toys. Lydia had talked early, walked early, excelled in everything and demanded to do it alone. By the time Maggie was in junior high, she had learned to stop trying to share; Lydia wanted nothing that was hers. Her younger sister was as incalculable to Maggie as the mathematics Lydia had studied in her spare time. It wasn’t kind to call Lydia cold, and it wasn’t entirely accurate besides, but something had never warmed between them the way it had between other siblings. They’d never summoned up the energy to hate each other either - why bother, when Maggie was content to paint and read and visit their grandmother, and Lydia collected popularity and friends with an alacrity that puzzled Maggie, who’d never really considered herself to have more than one or two real friends at a time. 

Fashion, in the end, was the one thing they’d ever bonded over. Lydia liked being put together - had insisted on dressing herself from age five on, everything just so and remarkably coordinated - and Maggie liked the colors, the fabrics, the shine of metal and stone at her ears and throat. She was something of an aesthete, a hedonist, even, if not the way most people would understand it. Lydia and Maggie split their magazine subscriptions evenly -  _Vogue_  and  _Harper’s Bazaar_ ,  _Nylon_ and  _W_  - and they could carry a conversation between them if it was about the new spring lines. They bemoaned the years that favored too many blues, and they shared accessories amicably, even though Maggie had always been a good shoe size larger.

When Maggie moved to New York for college, she fell into modeling. A by-product of her own attempts at art. She would never be a supermodel - couldn’t image it, honestly - but there was a circle of photographers who liked her enough to keep her afloat and leave her trust fund alone. She worked parties, gallery openings, fashion shows. Places people liked to see pretty girls take their coats or hand them drinks. Depending on who Maggie knew, and who they knew in turn  - relationships in NYC live and die as fast as anything else - she’d always been able to snag anything from a designer skirt or two to a handful of backstage passes. She’d shared her spoils with Lydia, their texting always peaking during the second week of September and February, and Lydia was the best dressed girl in Beacon Hills not just because she had the highest credit limit. 

She wasn’t concerned in the beginning. Three unreturned texts was nothing. Lydia favored efficiency in all things; if she had nothing to say, she simply wouldn’t text. But three turned into a handful, into a week’s worth, and when not even the promise of one of Jason Wu’s graffitied skirts deserved a response, Maggie became officially worried. Her mind running away with her, maybe, but what could have happened to Lydia? What  _couldn’t_  a place like Beacon Hills have done to her? Maggie had done her best before she’d left, but runes could be scratched off, painted over - iron nails uprooted, leaves and rowan long since removed by the maid. She had to  _know_. 

She didn’t like to scry. It took a lot out of her, and Lydia had always been difficult to connect with; not to mention Maggie preferred to work with air, the aether, and smoke was hardly the best medium for this sort of thing, but what else could be done? Her parents had always been willfully blind when it suited them, and Lydia knew how to paint on a mask and play a part better than Maggie ever had. A phone call would tell her less than nothing: Lydia and Jackson had broken up? Mom and Dad were still trying to buy Lydia’s affections in the divorce? Lydia was too strong for that. 

Looking back, Maggie wasn’t sure what she had expected to find. But the purple fog, the thick miasma, something umber and burnt and decayed, something that clawed at the edges - that wasn’t it  _at all_. 

Oh Lydia, she thought, Lydia, what’s happened to you. 

 


End file.
